


Lethologica

by Demarogue



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Death, Banter, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Found Family, Haven (Dragon Age), Hunters & Hunting, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Mages (Dragon Age), Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Templars (Dragon Age), The Winter Palace (Dragon Age), Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:48:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29541897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demarogue/pseuds/Demarogue
Summary: Before the Mage Rebellion and the Inquisition, Alethea Trevelyan knew nothing of war...or much of anything, in the world beyond her circle. Noble-born and pampered, she faces a reckoning in the form of an existential threat, and a former Templar she must learn to trust or risk everyone's destruction.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Kudos: 3
Collections: Cullen & Mage Inquisitor





	1. Fadestep

**Author's Note:**

> I know I know this is the second time I am rereleasing this thing, but I think I finally know where I am going with it.
> 
> It's a lot of exposition - I'm sorry about that! In the beginning it follows the beats of the game story pretty closely but is about to wildly diverge beginning in Ch 5.

Above all, they said she was kind.

In the days after the tragedy at the conclave, while the prisoner “slept” (if one could call that fretful half-death “sleeping”), Leliana’s ravens returned to her bearing every possible denial. “Impossible,” they all said. “Never Enchanter Trevelyan.” Members of the disbanded Ostwick circle were quick to claim her, and insist that her involvement in the explosion was beyond unlikely. The town of Ostwick itself had thrown in its support mere hours later. By the third day, their unconscious mage had a mob of birds squawking their support, and a shivering swarm of parchment. 

The fact remained that all except she were dead. Cullen could not make sense of it. Cassandra could not make sense of it. If Leliana could make sense of it, she was keeping that sense to herself, squinting with pursed lips over every new missive, murmuring. Her reports indicated that this noble-born mage was loyal to her circle, strong in her faith…and a driven, talented researcher, deeply steeped in experimental magic. That curiosity might have explained the unexplainable mark on her hand, made the tragedy accidental while still placing the blame squarely on her shoulders. But the only one with any business hypothesizing on the matter dismissed the possibility out-of-hand. 

“I cannot imagine any mage wielding such power,” the elf would repeat, inspecting the mark on their suspect’s hand with a delicacy, a tenderness that made Cullen scowl. 

“It is not a thing to be envied.”

Solas would only smile at him, thinly, as if the Commander were a child opining on things far beyond his ken.

On the fourth day, she woke up.

It happened just like that – one minute she was feverish, murmuring in her sleep, and the next she was wide awake, staring around her in horror. “Where,” she began to ask, when the cell erupted in surprised shouting, the clang of weapons and armor as her captors roused suddenly from their daydreams. Frantic activity followed. Enchanter Trevelyan was interrogated, uselessly. Cassandra did not want to believe that their only suspect, their only _witness,_ remembered nothing, but even she knew enough of injury and shock to recognize it. So she hauled the mage out to see the breach with her own eyes. To jog her memory, she told herself – but she was searching the younger woman’s face for guilt. Instead she found more shock, more horror.

“I’ll do what I can.”

Of course, Cullen heard all of this second-hand. He did not see her lip tremble, her shaky resolve as she withstood the crowd’s condemning looks. He did not see her fighting alongside them, testing her strange power with a mixture of wonder and fear. He did not even know she had revived until Leliana was inexplicably dividing his troops to support their attack on the rift, didn’t see her again until Cassandra was carrying her, unconscious once more, back into Haven. One look at the Seeker’s face told him everything had changed. Again. And again he found himself frustrated by the increasingly far-fetched stories, by the “first-hand” accounts that grew more impossible with each retelling. The townsfolk clustered around her cottage, harrowing the healers, as if Andraste herself was cloistered inside. 

“And they’ve forgotten all their doubt? Just like that?” he asked the Seeker, standing by their unconscious savior’s bedside. The creature there, with her bird’s bones and her delicate features, spotted with bruises and looking as fragile as glass, did not inspire any confidence in him. But Cassandra gazed at her, studied her, with a look that was almost reverent. “Even you?”

“I only know what I saw,” she answered.

* * *

Alethea Trevelyan awoke more slowly the second time than the first. Everything hurt, in ways she had never experienced before – in ways she had not known were possible. She grunted, then gasped as she sat up, feeling for all the world like everything inside her was broken, and was embarrassed to discover the inelegant sounds did not fall on deaf ears. One startled elf and a whole town of gawkers later, and she was standing – rather unsteadily – at Haven’s war table, blinking in surprise at the titles of those gathered. One, in particular.

He may not have introduced himself as a Templar, but she recognized it even before he mentioned his affiliation. _Past_ affiliation. 

Alethea had never met anyone who had left the order. Her eyes lingered on him, wondering, trailing over his armor, his face. A long scar crossed his lip and arced across his chin; she supposed he probably had many more, hidden beneath the leather and steel. His eyes were nearly the same color as his hair, like sun-browned wheat. Stubble darkened his jaw and upper lip. He was handsome, she thought objectively, as if noting a tiger’s stripes. Only the most pious chantry priest would have failed to notice he was handsome. But when he felt her gaze, he met it with obvious suspicion, a whisper of hostility. A tiger is less beautiful when it is staring at you, coiled to spring. The color drained from her cheeks. 

“Some are calling you, a mage, the ‘Herald of Andraste,’ and that frightens the Chantry.” Alethea was grateful to have something to focus on besides the edge in the Commander’s eyes.

“The _what?”_

“People saw what you did at the temple,” Cassandra explained, her voice far more gentle now that she didn’t suspect the mage of blowing up her idol, “how you stopped the Breach from growing. They have also heard about the woman seen in the rift when we first found you. They believe that was Andraste.”  


“It’s quite the title, isn’t it? How does it feel?”

She swallowed, forcing herself to look at the man when he spoke. He wore a tense smile that did not reach his eyes; his tone toed the line between a joke and a challenge. A whole childhood of etiquette training helped her school her features into a calm mask.

“I have no idea what to think.”

He seemed mollified by that, at least temporarily. From there, the conversation went on without her, as it always had: Templars or Mages, Mages or Templars? She groaned, then winced so that the company would assume it was an expression of pain. Of physical pain. Not the perpetual headache of this damnable conflict.

And then they collectively agreed to send her out into the thick of it, which, based on all the evidence, seemed the worst possible conclusion. But she acquiesced, not wanting to pique the templar’s suspicion all over again, and frankly wanting to put as much distance between them as possible. She was grateful that it was Cassandra who would accompany her to the Hinterlands. The Seeker, at least, had already warmed to her, and was unwilling to saddle Alethea with the fate of their cause. Their departure was set four days hence.

The Commander said something as Alethea fled the room, but she didn’t hear it; she was headed straight to the woods around Haven, to practice the spells she had always been forbidden to use. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the applications were forbidden. Fire was permitted for the lighting of candles or cooking of food. Frost, for the treatment of injuries. Lightning, for the laboratory only, while of course the healing arts and defensive spells were actively encouraged. Enchanter Trevelyan could cast a barrier like a fortress of steel. But fireballs?

It might have been funny, that everyone clearly believed Mages were up to all this combat training in the circles, if the misconception were not directly endangering her life. Alethea could defend herself, she could light up a demon with wild, instinctual magic when the need arose, but in a tactical situation? Against _people?_ The idea made her skin prickle with cold sweat. She did not know that she could kill animals, much less people. Slices of roast and bowls of stew had always tasted faintly of despair. But, as both Leliana and Cassandra had reminded her, there was no choice – she was tangled up in this mess, regardless of her wishes, and refusing to fight would certainly kill her and probably destroy the Inquisition’s hopes of reining in this chaos.

Only when the sounds from the training yard faded into nothing, and she was quite alone beneath the trees, did Alethea feel it was safe to proceed. Fire seemed a safe place to start – her handle of the element was good, in general…but when she cast the fireball at a broken stump, it went wide by what felt like leagues, flew for ages, steadily dwindling, until it struck a druffalo square in the rump, barely a fizzling ember. An ember, it turned out, was plenty infuriating to a druffalo. 

“Andraste’s tits…”

Alethea found it was as good a time as any to practice her fade-step.  
They went on like this for hours – the beast snorting and charging, the mage fade-stepping away. She felt badly for angering him, and was resolved to stay out of his way until he tired of the chase. But her plans were eventually cut short when a shout distracted her from her task.

“Lady Trevelyan!”

She turned, squinting, then wide-eyed as Ser Cullen emerged from the trees and threw a rock at the druffalo, drawing all its fury to himself. For a moment Alethea stood completely still, slack-jawed. Then, realizing that the creature was about to run down the Inquisition’s Commander, sword or no, she called on everything she knew of fire.

The glyph seemed to write itself. Cullen saw a line of fire tracing the snow before him, hissing; then, as the beast stepped across it, the ground erupted as if with gaatlok. A wave of heat slapped him in the face. The druffalo keened, veered off-course, crashed into the trees. Trevelyan fade-stepped forward, materializing in the charred circle she had made, smoke curling around her boots. Her brows were pinched into an expression of worry – or guilt.

Cullen’s face went from dumbstruck to angry as he realized she had never been in danger in the first place. Adrenaline and lyrium were burning through his veins, his sword-grip was white-knuckled, but this spindly woman was barely out of breath. She had burned a fire mine into the ground without the faintest sheen of sweat. He scowled at her.

Maker, but he was imposing up close. Alethea was a bit taller than average, but she felt dwarfed by this man, especially with the added bulk of his armor. “Are you –“ she began.

“What are you doing terrorizing the wildlife!?” He demanded before she could finish. The mage looked startled, then baffled, then angry in turn. It was a wonder to watch her features shapeshift so expressively. 

“What!? I didn’t mean to – I was just practicing, I didn’t mean to hurt him… _if you hadn’t provoked him all over again, I wouldn’t have had to kill the poor thing!”_ Her pitch rose steadily from righteous indignation to furious rage, color creeping into her cheeks, fire flickering in her eyes. Cullen scowled.

“I was trying to help! And I can handle a druffalo on my own, thank you very much!”

“So can I! Only _I_ can’t afford to have _you_ maimed – everyone would assume I’d set it on you on purpose!” She paused, then added at an equal volume, “you probably think I did!”

“The thought crossed my mind,” Cullen muttered between clenched teeth.

“Because I’m a big, bad mage?”

“Because you look at me with so much distrust,” he shot back, with a distinct overtone of moral superiority.

That did it. Now the “Lady” Trevelyan had well and truly flown off the handle.

“I look at _you_ with distrust!? Only because _you_ look at _me_ like an abomination waiting to happen, and I know first-hand what it would feel like if you acted on your suspicion!”

She realized it was the wrong thing to say when the words were half-way out, tumbling like stones over a cliff edge. Her mouth snapped shut, too late. His eyes went wide.

“You – you were _possessed!?”_ Alethea didn’t know whether she heard more anger or more fear. His sword was a hands-breadth out of its scabbard. She could smell the lyrium on him, like the ozone after a lightning strike. “Nothing in Leliana’s reports…there was no mention of…”

“No! No, it wasn’t like that, I…” she did not want to relate this particular story to this particular man. She swallowed. “I asked a templar at my circle – a friend – to show me. I…I’d always believed fear to be a reaction to the unknown. I thought it was worse, had to be worse, in my imagination.” Trevelyan’s words came out in a rush, explaining things that were impossible to explain to a stranger, to a _templar._ His eyes were still so wide, rimmed in white, the shock in them as plain as the anger had been before. Her voice wavered. “And I was wrong. Knowing was worse.”

She turned and half-ran, half-stumbled through the ankle deep snow, in the direction the wounded animal had fled.

After a minute of stunned silence, Cullen followed.

He didn’t know what he planned to say, or do, when he caught her up…and he was spared having to decide. Between the trees, he could just make out the smoldering carcass of the druffalo, could just hear her faint sob, before she fade-stepped away.


	2. Division

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for hunting scenes, animal death and semi-graphic death stuff in general

Alethea did not practice in the wilds around haven again. Creating a kind of makeshift circle, she hid away in the now-empty dungeons, igniting, electrocuting and freezing a borrowed training dummy in turns. By the time she and her motley party left a few days later, heading into the Hinterlands and immediate, relentless danger, she was reasonably confident she could burn off an enemy’s eyebrows. She mounted her horse with a stomach full of dread, barely drawing any comfort from the familiar rock of the animal’s gait. Her expression was pale, and grim.

Hidden amidst the chaos of the training ground, Cullen watched them go. If the “Herald” felt eyes on her, she did not turn to see that they were his. 

Separated by such a distance in the days that followed, both were troubled by their first – and only – conversation. And neither of them had time to process it. Cullen had a burgeoning army of recruits to train, many of whom had never hefted more than a shovel in self-defense. And Alethea had barely made camp when she found herself in her first mage-templar skirmish. It was an ugly affair. There wasn’t time to process that, either.

The Herald did not know how her companions could sleep. The nights were cold, and the ground was hard, and the dead crowded noisily in her mind with their blind eyes, their raging eyes, their eyes wide with terror. The tents were mere draperies; poor defense against the elements…or the wolves. Memories of stone walls and warm hearths settled heavily in her chest.

She found herself creeping away each night, beyond the circle of firelight and the gaze of the midnight watch, to look up at the stars, or to think, or to practice. In her troubled state it seemed safer to be awake, no matter where. She was hunting rams (poorly) on one such night when the elf found her.

“Is your intent to kill, or to annoy?”

Alethea whirled, startled, a barrier springing up around her by instinct. The green glow of it made Solas’ smile look sinister. His laughter, though, was friendly, and she found herself relaxing at the sound of it.

“Forgive me. I did not mean to catch you unawares.”

“I should have been paying better attention; I owe you thanks, not forgiveness, for showing me my error.” Speaking with the elf always made her recall more formal speech, as if she were back in an Ostwick court; her voice slipped into the cadence of it automatically, mirroring his careful phrasing.

“Indeed,” he answered, inclining his head. Alethea drew herself up a bit taller, dismissed the barrier with a wave. “What was distracting you? Clearly, it was not the thrill of the hunt.” He gave her a knowing look…impossibly perceptive, as usual. She considered changing the subject, then thought better of it.

“People everywhere are so afraid of mages – of me. It is worse if they have heard about my research. They imagine weird experiments, trickling blood, the glow of green fire. But here I am, let loose out in the world, all that theoretical knowledge stuffed up in my brain, and I can barely muster the will to murder _sheep.”_

“You have a poetic way of thinking,” Solas commented. Then he was still, and silent, studying her with that attentive look he sometimes wore. Alethea looked away. “We cannot control what others think of us, least of all the small-minded,” he continued at last, stepping forward without drawing near. “But we can control our actions, and the intentions behind them. You do not need malice, Enchanter Trevelyan. You need purpose.”

Barely looking, Solas extended an arm toward a distant ram, encasing it in ice. Alethea was ashamed to see how highly attuned his senses were to their surroundings, even while his attention seemed caught up with speaking. “Your purpose here is to help those people who are cold, and sick, and starving. Focus.”

His eyes drifted back toward the ram, and Alethea realized he had assumed the role of her teacher. Relief stung her eyes. Sniffing, she took a steadying breath, lifted her staff, and cast a bolt of lightning at her target, killing it instantly.

“Good,” Solas said, making a gesture the Herald did not recognize. With a little flurry of green sparks, the carcass unknit itself, separating into orderly piles of hide, and meat, and bone. “Again.”

“Wait; how did you do that?”

He smiled, “Ever so curious. I will teach you, if you wish, but first you must do it again.”

Alethea did it again. And again. After the fifth time watching him, studying the movements of his hands with rapt attention, he taught her the spell and she broke down the next ram herself.

“Excellent. You are becoming quite proficient at this,” he said, and she beamed, always the eager student. Together, they salted the meat and wrapped it in stiff cotton before packing it and the hides away for their return to camp. Alethea was surprised to see how far they had wandered; there was a hint of dawn on the horizon, but she felt energized, alive. The lesson had certainly lifted her spirits, but as they walked together in companionable silence, she had a thought that made her stomach turn.

“Solas…would that same spell work on the living?”

“In theory,” he answered in his usual, matter-of-fact way. “Let us hope we never have reason to test it. There are many simpler, more humane ways to kill, after all, and you are very near to mastering one of them.”

Alethea smiled a little, in spite of herself. She’d been so caught up with learning the spell of division, she hadn’t noticed that she’d also become a hunter.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Their journey, meant to take only a week, stretched into a fortnight. 

There was too much to be done in the Hinterlands. Alethea knew they should return to haven, pass Mother Giselle’s message along to the advisors, but everywhere she looked, there was some immediate need. She had never seen so much suffering in her life. Being unaccustomed to turning her back on it, she found herself insisting on another day, another, just one more…

Cassandra finally put a stop to it, but not before the war had changed the Herald.

Looking back, she realized it had begun the night she’d hunted rams with Solas. From there, the change had been subtle. Insidious. She first noticed it when Cassandra yelled something during battle, “Maker take you,” or along those lines, and Alethea had laughed. She had _laughed_ at the bandit’s death, at killing men. A chill like winter’s grasp had settled in her blood.

Then, when they were preparing dinner, she realized their meat looked exactly like the torn flesh of a templar. The smell of it was just like what she’d smelled in that burned cabin, full of burned timber and burned mages. The sizzle…Alethea remembered the sound her fireballs made when they reached their targets, her mines erupting with flame.

She stopped eating, except for whatever stale bread they came across, looting abandoned cupboards.

“You have to eat more than that, Moony,” Varric told her, after the third day of her abstinence. But he handed her a wedge of cheese, too, and a few dried figs he’d procured from Maker-knows-where. She accepted them gratefully.

“Moony?”

“…and everyone knows you’re never, ever in your tent at night. So you should really sleep more, too.”

 _Everyone knows_ …Alethea cast a furtive glance at Solas, napping alone beneath a tree. The elf had slept little during their journey, despite his obvious preference for dreams over reality. She wondered if his wakefulness was wholly for her benefit. She wondered if it was because he liked her, or because he thought she was so ill-prepared that she endangered everyone. She wondered if every friendship she managed to cultivate here would bear that possibility. “If you wouldn’t mind…calling me something else, when we get back to Haven? I don’t think the Commander would like to hear that I’ve been training out of sight of the camp.”

“Oh, he definitely knows. But whatever you want, Princess.”

She smiled at him around the fig in her mouth, despite that troubling pronouncement, and he sat beside her on the log they used as a bench. The fire cast the planes of his face into exaggerated shadows and light. “Oh, come now. I’m no princess.”

 _“Oh, come now,”_ he parroted, and she groaned playfully. “You’re scrappy for a noble, I’ll give you that, but you still tiptoe over mud, and I have never heard anyone complain about wanting a bath as often as you do.”

“I don’t want a bath, I _need_ one. And so do you. Everyone here does except Solas…” she continued, narrowing her eyes in his direction.

“Must be an elf thing. Maybe he takes fade-baths.” He cackled as Alethea swatted him. “What! He might!” She tutted at him, doing her best impression of Josephine.

“Solas does not like to be teased.”

“Oh, he loves it. He’s just pretending not to. Hey, Chuckles!” Solas opened one eye, as if he had been only pretending to sleep, and scowled. “See? Good actor.”

Alethea’s laughter would have ricocheted over the rocks behind camp, if she had not had the training to stifle it into silence, miming mirth as she clung to her ribs.

“That’s a neat trick. Another thing you learned from your fleet of private tutors?”

“I began that training at home, but I finished it in the circle. Ostwick’s circle – my circle – was quiet…literally. Senior Enchanter Lydia was very sensitive to a ruckus. Nor could she bear any hurly-burly or foofaraw.” She smiled wistfully, hearing the old woman’s voice in the borrowed words. “It is a wonder she loved me in spite of the occasional deafening boom from the basement lab.” Varric choked on whatever he was drinking. “I didn’t mean to, experiments just don’t always go as planned,” she clarified.

“Funny, that doesn’t make me feel better.” 

She punched him affectionately in the arm, and he pretended it hurt. More grins; more silent laughter. More comfortable quiet, as they chewed and drank and watched the fire burn down. A scout put another log on in his lap around the camp.

“Varric…can I ask you something,” Alethea finally queried.

“Shoot, Princess.”

“The Commander, he’s…does he hate all mages, or is it just me?”

“You wanna know about Curly? You’d better ask Cassandra.”

“I’m asking you…”

“I know, and I’ll tell you a story – never have to ask me twice for one of those. But you should corroborate everything with Cassandra, after, because I’m prone to extravagant lies.”

“Could you curb that impulse for a time? Just for me?” She smiled, her voice heavy with ladylike persuasion. Varric groaned.

“I’ll do my best…but all the same…”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Cullen did not know what to think. Cullen did not know what to feel.

The reports Cassandra sent back to Haven made one thing clear: the Seeker was as much a convert to the cult of the Herald as any of their mystified villagers.  
Even though Trevelyan and the Elven Apostate were sneaking away together at night.  
Even though, every day, the mage was casting new spells that Cassandra had never seen, nor heard of.

Leliana insisted that the woman’s extraordinary magical talent was a good thing. “We will need it to close the Breach, Commander. Only a great deal of powerful magic can–“

“And I still disagree.”

She gave him a pitying look.

Josephine was just as bad, but her points drove to the real heart of things, making her even worse. “You should talk to her,” she pronounced, as they emerged from the war room.

“About what?” His voice had an edge. She tutted at him.

“About that. About whatever it is that happened in the woods.” Cullen felt his cheeks flush with shame. Of course someone had seen them return to the gate, one after the other, both in obvious distress. And of course Josephine (and Leliana, to be sure) knew of it. Of course. “Knight-Captain Rylen said you were very testy with the new recruits for days afterward. Clearly, you got off on the wrong foot. Talk to her. You cannot set things right by ruminating.”

“I can’t talk to her – she isn’t here.”

“She will be by nightfall.”

Cullen hoped his hard swallow went unnoticed.

“Scout Harding sent word ahead. You have a few hours to think of what you’ll say.”

For the next few hours, Cullen could think of nothing else. Unfortunately, thinking about it did not produce any results.

Trevelyan – the “Herald,” – was a talented, and dangerous mage. Cullen knew it was wrong to stereotype her, he knew his resentment was a product of bad memories beyond her control, but he couldn’t help it; she was _powerful._ He had seen what power, and the desire for more of it, could do to a person. If he was honest with himself, he had been afraid of her for a moment out there in the woods. For a moment, he had even wondered if she was already possessed…a demon wearing a young woman’s skin. But there was no indication of that, or that she was a liar, and that meant there was a real possibility that she’d asked a templar at her circle to silence her, or worse. She’d asked to be tortured for research purposes. And, shockingly, that templar had agreed. Cullen could not imagine how that must have felt, to use those powers against a friend, to see the look on her face, to realize what he’d done. _What that templar had done,_ he corrected himself. He was angry at them both. And, if he was continuing to be honest, he was ashamed. 

_I was wrong. Knowing was worse._

Those words made him question everything, and not for the first time. Cullen had spent what felt like his entire life questioning everything he had ever thought, ever felt. He gnawed on these feelings, letting them distract him from his purpose, letting them pull him under the spell of his regret.

So when the conquering heroes finally returned, dirty and blood-spattered and badly needing baths, Cullen hung back, hesitated. The apology, the _explanation_ he wanted to provide, now seemed too abrupt. While he tried to formulate a new one, he busied himself with “inspecting” the smithy, and stealing glances at Trevelyan as she introduced their new horse-master to Rylen. The Commander had to admit she possessed a kind of grace, with some of her strength returned to her. Her movements were fluid, assured in the way of someone who was at home in her own skin, despite her obvious fatigue. Then she spotted him, and he was alarmed to see her dismount and stride purposefully in his direction. A thousand half-formed sentences jockeyed for position on his tongue. 

“Lady Trev – I mean, Herald –“

“Alethea,” she corrected. “Lady Trevelyan was my mother, and neither of us believe I’m Andraste’s Herald.” 

Cullen frowned, nodded. Her words were blunt, but there was no heat in her tone…and she’d invited him to use her first name, which was an unexpected gesture. Weren’t noble-born ladies supposed to insist on titles? He wondered if he’d been the only one stewing over their confrontation – perhaps it was a smaller thing than he’d imagined, perhaps they wouldn’t have to talk about it at all. She swallowed, looked down at her boots, then back up at him. Her bright eyes cut to the core, hamstringing those hopes.

“I wanted to apologize.”

 _“You_ wanted to apologize?”

“Yes,” she continued, misunderstanding his meaning, a shade of irritation creeping into her voice. She paused for a beat, wrestled her composure back into place. “I was hard on you. You did have reason to suspect me; you all did. There was no one else to suspect. And I shouldn’t have told you about that…that experiment.”

“The templar who did it was a…friend?”

Cullen immediately regretted the question; his neck felt suddenly hot. Alethea was quiet. He couldn’t tell if she was surprised or nervous, or merely made uncomfortable by his impertinence. 

Alethea studied a point in the distance, wondering if the Commander meant to imply that the templar had been something more…which would have come uncomfortably close to the truth, for a wild guess. Unless he’d heard something, or sensed something. Perhaps Solas and Leliana weren’t the only members of the inquisition with preternatural intuition. 

“Yes. I knew him before, actually – we’d been friends as children. But, ah…our relationship was never the same, after that.”

The hurt in her voice softened him; the wariness faded from his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment, “for what happened between you. And between…ah…us. Your magic is formidable. I didn’t expect it. And I have some, er, history of my own…”

“You were at Kinloch Hold.”

_How did she…_

“Yes.”

“And Kirkwall.”

“…Yes.” His hand went to his neck, resting there a moment while he looked everywhere except at the woman before him.

“Cassandra told me,” she said gently, a hint of apology ghosting over the words, “and, er, Varric. But before you make that face, Varric assured me he would tell the story as objectively as possible.” Cullen made that face. She laughed; her smile had a transformative effect on her already pretty features. The corner of his mouth quirked upward involuntarily. “No, he truly did. And he came to your defense. And…and I believed him.” She clasped her hands a moment in front of her, worried at a loose thread in her gloves. “I’m sorry for what happened to you. You’ve seen the worst side of us. I hope I can convince you that mages can be better than that. The vast majority of us are better than that.”

“I know. Even if I…even if it doesn’t always come across that way.” he said, a little too warmly, and coughed. 

“Good. I’m glad. Ah, I’d better go clean up a bit before I meet with you and the others. There is much to discuss, but I think Josephine would be scandalized by this…whatever this is, on my coat. Would you tell them I’ll be there in an hour?”

“Of course, Herald.”

“Alethea.”

“…Alethea.”

She smiled tentatively, forcing herself to meet his eyes, as difficult as that had suddenly become. Feeling there was still something unspoken there, something simmering beneath the surface, she lingered a heartbeat longer. But the unspoken thing remained stubbornly mysterious. At last, she drew away.


	3. Retrograde

It took only a handful of breaths and a few specific words to rub the shine right off what might have been a budding friendship.

The Herald needed an hour, but Cassandra – battle-ready and accustomed to rationing time as well as resources – was prepared to report in less than half that time. With Alethea indisposed, she began by regaling them with an extremely detailed description of the young mage’s “spell of division.”

“Oh!” Leliana exclaimed, intrigued.  
 _“Oh,”_ Josephine gasped, turning slightly green.

Cullen said nothing at first. His brows drew down into a hard shelf over his eyes. Then, finally, _“That’s_ the strange magic you mentioned in your letters?”

“Yes. I thought it would be best if you heard the specifics in person. And I didn’t want to risk an interception of those details.”

“Where could she possibly have learned such a spell? You’re sure it wasn’t blood magic?”

Cassandra shrugged, but her mouth turned down in a faint scowl. “Yes, Cullen, I am quite sure it was not blood magic. You know very well that I would not have tolerated such a thing. As to where she learned it…Who can say? But if I had to guess, I think it’s more likely she learned it from Solas, than her research at the circle. They seem to have grown…rather close. I did not expect it of either of them.”

“Do you think their relationship is cause for concern?” Cullen demanded, a little too loudly. The three women shot him identical looks, in unison. Cassandra’s words were level, despite her frown.

“I think ‘relationship’ is not the right word. She is far from home, and Solas is knowledgable and willing to teach her. I suspect that arrangement feels familiar…safe, perhaps. As to where the elf picked up all this knowledge, _that_ is a question for–”

“We need her,” Leliana suddenly interjected, misreading Cullen’s expression. “The sooner she feels at home in the Inquisition, the better. Let her bed the apostate, if that’s what keeps her invested. Maybe I should speak with them…drop some hints…”

“Is that really necessary?” Cullen groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. Leliana smiled innocently.

“Are you volunteering in his place?”

“What!? No!” Cullen _hated_ that look Leliana got, like she’d won a chess match, when she found a trigger and delightedly pulled it. “I mean, no, it just seems wrong to manipulate our people into… _entanglements_ for the sake of…”

Alethea walked through the door, looking refreshed and radiant. All of the color drained from Cullen’s face. “Am I interrupting?”

“No,” they all answered in unison, their tones varying wildly. The mage pursed her lips, looking for all the world like a noblewoman who didn’t quite like the smell of the caviar.

“I see. Well then, shall we get on to the matter of Mother Giselle and her Very Bad Plan?”

They got on to it. Alethea was chagrined to discover that all of them (except Cullen) thought that appearing before her accusers was the only option available to her. She tried to negotiate for time, but lost that argument, as well. What she did get – two days to recuperate before setting out for Val Royeaux – would be spent planning troop movements, diplomatic strategies and intelligence operations. Alethea was exhausted and angry, but she knew when she was beaten. She turned the conversation to what had been accomplished in the Hinterlands, and the new information they had gathered. But instead of resounding applause, she was met with more consternation and criticism. 

“I only wish – forgive me, Lady Herald – but I wish you had returned to Haven sooner. The more your presence is felt in the Hinterlands, the more desperate the Grand Clerics become,” Josephine chided, scratching something onto that infernal tablet. “It would be much better if you were already on your way to Val Royeaux.”

“My ‘presence?’ There were rifts. There were demons coming out of the rifts. There were demons controlling the wildlife, harrowing farmers and villagers, for Andraste’s sake! We routed the camps of both the templars and mages! We secured the roads!”

“And hunted food for the refugees, and recruited healers, and scouted for supplies, and gathered many bushels of elfroot, yes, I know. I am not implying that you acted _wrongly,_ my Lady. Rather, I am telling you that we must be more judicious with your time and efforts. Cullen and Leliana’s people could have taken care of many of those things without the Herald, but only the Herald, herself, may placate the Chantry.”

Alethea fumed, staring at their map through blurring tears. Of course, Josephine was right. The advisors were always right, even when they disagreed with each other, somehow. She wondered if that had been what they were discussing when she entered the room – how stupid she had been, playing the hero, when they needed her to play the figurehead instead. She’d thought Cassandra was her friend, but even she had a sad, regretful look on her face. Only Cullen looked faintly annoyed, rather than disappointed. 

“I hate politics,” he muttered suddenly.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with hope. His expression changed into something indecipherable. He looked away. Apparently even her progress with him was going to be two steps forward and one step back. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said to the map.

“Do not apologize, Lady Herald. Please just come back when requested, and do not underestimate the power of these appearances, and their timing.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
With the security of walls around her, and the comfort of a bed beneath her, Alethea was able to sleep that night. Her body, overrun with exhaustion, fell into oblivion as soon as she had stretched out beneath the blankets. But her mind was active, restless. The dreams marched on.

Even her happiest memories twisted themselves into nightmares.

Every detail was fresh and vivid and real. She was back in her old room in the circle tower, before the infighting. Enchanter Livy’s fitful snoring was exactly the right pitch. Fire crackled merrily in the hearth, snow fell in fat flakes past the window above her pillow, muffling the outside world. She slipped her feet out from under the covers, onto the cool stone. Her candle cast flickering light over the curving stairwell as she padded down into her basement lab. There, everything was as she always left it: an orderly desk with fresh paper and ink ready for notes, alchemical ingredients in neatly labeled bottles, vials and beakers and flasks all sparkling clean. Shelves of books lined every wall. Cheerfully, she stepped closer to the one left open on a stand, her place marked in the spine with a silk ribbon. Her eyes traced over the words, taking them all in with a single glance. 

_It must be said, there is a certain satisfaction to be gained through electrocuting one’s opponents, that is different from merely burning or freezing them. For one thing, the power of storm borrows from both fire and frost, encompassing and transcending them; the victim may be immobilized, for example, and experience a feeling not dissimilar from boiling alive…_

Alethea stumbled back from the book. From the shelves, the titles leaped out at her, shouting. _A History of Annulment. The Scent of Death. Memoirs of Maleficarum._

Her candle went out with a gust. In the darkness, she could see their faces. In the darkness, she could hear Senior Enchanter Lydia’s screams. Her hands felt wet and sticky.

She jolted awake. Her nightgown stuck to her, soaked, despite the winter chill.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
When Cullen took his morning lap around Haven, he was surprised to see her conferring with Leliana in the spymaster’s tent. Trevelyan hadn’t struck him as an early-riser, yet there she was, kneeling with the Left Hand of the Divine, apparently sharing a prayer. Cullen watched them, oddly fascinated. Was it voyeurism to spy on such a moment? He felt a twinge of guilt, as if it might be, but then the pair stood up, parted ways with a clasping of hands. Cullen retreated a little further into the shadow of the Chantry as she crossed the path before him, moving in the direction of the apothecary – and Solas. The Commander wrestled with his desire to spy on that, too; forced himself to march in the opposite direction, instead.

As he passed Varric’s tent, the dwarf was just emerging, stretching and yawning.

“Mornin, Curly.”

Cullen grunted, not wanting to encourage the nickname. “It seems everyone is up, despite the early hour. If only my recruits would follow suit.”

“Eh, they need their beauty sleep. I hope Princess was able to catch a few winks, poor kid’s turning into a zombie.”

“Caught up with her training?” Cullen inquired casually, warming his hands over the fire. Varric made a face.

“Is that what Cassandra said, or is that what you think? Either way, no. She’s seen a lot that she can’t unsee. Most people would spread that shit out over more than a few days.”

“I thought she couldn’t remember?”

“Even if she can’t, it’s still haunting her. Besides, she’s got a whole lot else to trouble her, beyond what happened at the conclave. You know her teacher was killed right in front of her, when her circle split? With a knife, mind you. And that was after her circle’s templars made a move to “annul” the place.” Varric scowled, shaking his head. “I hate those cutesy Chantry euphemisms.”

“She told you all this?” Cullen could not hide the curiosity in his voice.

“Don’t act so surprised, I have a trustworthy face. And Princess isn’t exactly secretive; she doesn’t think she has anything to hide. Which is sort of sad, when you think about it. Didn’t get out much, before she was forced out.” The dwarf paused, gazing into the fire. “Go easy on her, Commander. She might look poised and self-assured to you, but she’s taking this shit hard. Real hard.”

Cullen promised he would take that under advisement, and strolled away feeling unfairly reprimanded. What did Varric expect – that he, a former Templar, and she, an apostate, would join hands and go skipping through the fields? _Neither_ of them were so unbiased, he repeated to himself. They were being as fair-minded as they could be. And it was normal to be sleepless under the circumstances, he thought. The Herald was overwhelmed, but she would catch up soon. 

She had to. For all their sakes.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Alethea had to admit – if the situation hadn’t been so perilous, it might have been funny.

There were so many reasons, prior to the Inquisition, that she had wanted to visit Val Royeaux. The element of religious devotion was one. The famed beauty of the city was another. As a noble-born mage of some refinement, the treasures beckoning from every shop and boutique sang a siren’s song; she had heard impossible things about the city’s dress-makers and jewelers, patisseries and purveyors of wine. She had kept an aspirational stash of coin, once, in case she ever made it to that paradise.

But now, having been there and seen the place for herself, she was in no position to appreciate its charms. Too much of her energy was being spent feeling uncharitable toward its stuck-up, ignorant, petty, mindless citizens.

“Please, listen to me! I don’t know if I’m the Herald of Andraste – I never made that claim! But I believe in her, I believe in the Maker, just like all of you. I want nothing more than to do his will. And there must be a reason I have this mark, there must be a reason I can help!”

The townspeople actually spat on her; the Chantry mothers were unmoved. And then, the “templars” had arrived. Alethea had seen many rogue templars since being conscripted to the Inquisition, but nobody could have convinced her that the order itself had become what she’d just seen. At least it simplified the choice they had to make; by comparison, Grand Enchanter Fiona had seemed utterly level-headed. 

“But perhaps she was only so measured because you are a fellow mage,” Cassandra pointed out when she brought this up.

“I doubt she considers me her fellow. She knows that the majority of my circle opposed the rebellion, and even when we were forced to leave…we left before our templars had time to organize the annulment. We did not want to fight them, even then.” Alethea could feel the warrior’s probing gaze, but kept her own fixed studiously on the path before them. Her hands tightened on the reins. “Besides, does it matter why she was civil? The Lord Seeker is a lunatic. His lackey punched an old Chantry mother in the head.”

“He certainly did not seem to be himself,” Cassandra confirmed.

“Then why are we even having this conversation?”

“Because the mages may be more desperate than you realize.”

“Of course they are desperate,” Alethea groaned, dismounting. One scout took her horse, and another – in Leliana’s livery – approached with an outfit draped over each arm. She smiled at him, amazed as usual that the spymaster’s men could carry word so quickly. The clothing was practical, road-ready but finely made, probably by Orlesian hands. Her fingers danced over the careful stitches; she picked the one in a color that flattered her hair. A tiny taste of the delicacies she had longed for and would never have. 

A dress would have been better, but obviously the Inquisition wanted to send the message to Madame de Fer that their Herald was not making a social visit. 

“I suppose on the return trip, we’ll follow up with this “Red Jenny” character?” Alethea inquired of her cohort, after scrubbing herself as well as she could with a cloth and bucket, and re-dressing in the slightly prettier garments. Unbelievably, the clothing fit like a glove – she wondered how long Leliana had had her measurements, how she’d procured them, and when the garments had been made. With a practiced gesture, she adjusted the silk cravat so that it bloused just so. “I wonder if First Enchanter Vivienne has heard of her?”

First Enchanter Vivienne had not.

The journey back to Haven managed to be even more surreal than the one to Val Royeux. Madame de Fer insisted they take her carriage, though she was a capable rider…and Sera, the “Red Jenny,” insisted in turn on riding up top with the driver, “out-the-way of horses’ farts.” Now, the elf was tittering on in her too loud, incomprehensible cadence, stomping her foot with laughter on the boards directly behind Vivienne’s head. The Enchanter, remarkably, seemed not to notice – or was practiced at rising above such distractions.

“Senior Enchanter Lydia was a dear friend of mine. Were you at all acquainted?” She asked at one point, barely batting an eye at a particularly loud THUMP. With her dignified air and immaculate poise, the woman was even more intimidating than Alethea had expected.

“Yes, Madame Vivienne. She is–was my mentor, like family to me. She, ah…I assume you heard that she did not survive the dissolution of our circle.”

“I did. Such a pity; she was a remarkable woman.” 

“She was,” Alethea agreed, swallowing past the tightness in her throat. Her eyes darted beyond the velvet curtains, into the landscape rolling past.

“I am so sorry for your loss, my dear. I wish I could tell you that it will be the last. But we must steel ourselves, and hone our very hearts into weapons. It is the only way we will survive.” 

Alethea forced herself to meet the older woman’s gaze again, nod her understanding. Without the mask, it was easy to see how Vivienne had come to be called the Iron Lady – her stare was flinty and direct, even when her tone was tuned to sympathy. The barest hint of a frown over her painted lips was the only true indication that she felt anything at all. Alethea’s own expression felt heavy, resigned. It was not the first time she’d been told to be harder, to feel less, to be less herself. Apparently she would have to give up even her grief. As if on cue, their conversation turned to superficial things – the First Enchanter’s tailor, her ideas for the Ambassador, court gossip, the dismal weather they were riding into. Vivienne could serve up a quip as savory as an amuse bouche; Alethea could laugh like a trained bird, repeating the notes she had been taught, singing from her cage.


	4. Lyrium

“This is insane.”

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose, his left hand gripping the pommel of his sword. Leliana’s people had delivered word a full two days before Trevelyan’s return, but the news had been so concerning that they had waited to confirm it before examining their options. And now that they had Cassandra and Trevelyan’s accounts, it seemed everything was even worse than their worst fears. Or at least, _his_ worst fears.

“We can’t just write off the Templars. You said Ser Barris seemed unconvinced – he cannot be the only one.”

“Of course he’s not the only one, _Commander,_ but we don’t need a handful of Templar defectors; we need _all_ of the Templars or _all_ of the Mages if we are going to seal the bloody breach!” Alethea swore in a way that indicated she reserved such terms for moments when no other words would do. Her cheeks were flush with barely-contained fury. In the beat of silence that followed, Josephine cleared her throat. 

“I agree with the Herald,” Leliana cut in, “Grand Enchanter Fiona has offered to speak with us, while Lord Seeker Lucius has closed ranks in a remote fortress, admitting only supply caravans and turning the traders out as soon as they have unloaded their wares. I could get my people in, but it would be difficult, and very risky. Why should we scoff at the group that is willing to negotiate?”

“Furthermore, the Mages need an opportunity to prove the worth of their cause – we cannot underestimate the value in providing that chance. They will be grateful to us, and King Alistair will be grateful if we convince them to leave Redcliff. It would not hurt to be owed a favor by Ferelden.” Josephine delivered her assessment with the finality of a deciding vote. Cullen groaned, dropped his fist on the table.

“But we cannot just leave the Templars at the mercy of the Lord Seeker! They didn’t sign up for this!”

“The Mages didn’t sign up _at all,”_ Alethea countered, fuming. “The “Mage Rebellion” is composed of as many loyalists and children as it is of rebel apostates. And not one of them chose to be a mage.”

“That’s not the comparison I was trying to make,” Cullen growled.

“If we can find a way to help those questioning the order to escape, we will, won’t we, Leliana?” The mage turned her sharp look on the spymaster, who nodded with a diplomatic smile. “But I will not offer my hand in friendship to the man who paraded into Val Royeaux just to terrify and intimidate people. I will not. He was involved in what happened at the Conclave; there is no other explanation for choosing that moment, when people were most uncertain and afraid, to assert that killing mages is more important than protecting innocents from demons. And who knows how deep that corruption has spread?”

“Not so far as Ser Barris,” the Commander countered, though he knew he was defeated. He scowled at her from across the table, drawn up to his full height. “Cassandra?” He entreated, barely directing his attention away from Trevelyan. Cassandra sighed.

“You know where my heart lies, Cullen, but our friends are not wrong.” Cullen made an exasperated sound. “Regardless, we must investigate this Templar fortress further. For one who was so keen to wipe out the scourge of magic, it is odd for the Lord Seeker to be holed up like a bear in winter. He is up to something, and we need to know what that is. If we can get any dissenters out–“

He had heard enough. Excusing himself with a gruff apology, Cullen left the war room, letting the door bang against the wall. Cassandra frowned at his retreating back.

“Perhaps I should–“

Alethea turned heel and abruptly stormed out after him. Cassandra took a steadying breath.

“It is difficult to finish a sentence in this room.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The door to his chambers rattled the frame as it slammed behind him, so unexpectedly loud that Cullen flinched. Then, silence...or something like silence. Behind the heavy wood and stone, Cullen could just make out the Herald's voice, calling after him – she must not have expected him to retreat so completely, or perhaps she did not know that he had assigned quarters beyond the tent where he usually slept – but inside this room, everything was still, and stale, and dead. He allowed himself to slump against the door, head tilting back until his skull thumped against the wood. The Herald's voice drifted into nothing.

How determined would she be, to find him? Would she look for him on the training yard, in the smithy, among the soldiers' tents? Would she think to ask where his chambers were? Would she come back here, and find him...like this? Cullen brought up a hand to scrub at his face, found that it was trembling. That both were trembling. He held them out before him, fingers splayed, then clenched and unclenched his fists. When they did not still, he removed his gloves one finger at a time, painstakingly. A distraction.

In a drawer of the simple desk, he could hear the lyrium's song. Faint, like the Herald's voice as she walked through the Chantry, muddled by the locked door between them. 

Cullen tried not to stare at the drawer, or the desk, or that side of the room; he studied every other part, instead. There was a threadbare tapestry on one wall, so faded and tattered it was impossible to make out the original design. The rug on the floor was in even worse shape, though any carpet seemed a luxury to him, having grown up in a farmhouse. His bed had been made, he noticed, sheets changed and quilt dusted, despite his never having spent a night within these walls. There were fresh candles on the bedside table, and a water pitcher that glittered with a garland of sweat not unlike the one rapidly beading over his brow. A waste of resources – he'd have to take it up with the staff, when this episode passed. If it passed. He didn't think he'd ever experienced a headache more piercing, or a sense of urgency so...

No. It wasn't urgency, he reminded himself. It was stress – it was weakness. It was his body wanting so badly to fall back on what it knew, on the familiar bone-deep certainty of the lyrium, the murmur of its lullaby in his blood. He did not need it now. He could not need it now. Not even with the heat rising in his throat, and the chill spreading down his spine. It might have slaked the desperate thirst he felt, but at too great a cost. He had to prove that it was possible, for all the Templar's sakes. It was the only way he could save them.

If there were any left to save.

Cullen staggered into the room, vertigo sweeping over him with each step, and collapsed onto that perfectly tended bed. The room was spinning; his thoughts were caught up in that maelstrom. _The Herald was a mage – it should not have surprised him that she'd callously abandon his brothers to be torn apart by a madman. But he'd thought she might be different...thought she might see through her prejudice, that she might make an unbiased choice. And the rest of the council had sided with her! How could they? And how could they expect him to fall in line? To accept the sacrifice of his family, as he had always been expected to do, even now that things were supposed to be different? No! He would not bow beneath that expectation! He would not take orders from this naive woman, who had seen so little of the world, of war! Why did they look to her for guidance – she, the least experienced of them all? A tool to be used, not a leader…_

His mouth was half-forming words, sweat pooling on the pillow beneath him, when Cassandra finally unlocked the door, and sent it swinging. One look at him, and she closed it again behind her.

"Cullen," she stated.

He winced, closed his eyes. His fingers tightened reflexively on the blanket beneath him. What was that infernal noise? It was like a hot iron, pressing into his brain. He could not afford to be distracted, not now, with his plan forming just beyond consciousness–

"Cullen," Cassandra repeated, more softly, but to him it was like a deafening gong heard underwater, both close and far away. He did not hear her stride across the rug toward him, barely felt her bare, cool palm against his cheek. "Shit," she muttered, and smoothed away the hair clinging to his temples. "You foolish man. What have you done?”

Everything went dark.

For hours, Cullen drifted in and out of consciousness. When the world again resolved into sense, he found himself sweat-slicked beneath the quilt in sticky underclothes, blinking against the candlelight that seemed as bright and piercing as the noonday sun. He groaned, turned, met Cassandra's stern gaze. Swallowed.

"How long have–"

"It is past sundown," the Seeker answered frankly, filling a cup from the pitcher. She handed it to him with an expectant look, and Cullen drank it, his mouth so dry the water burned wherever it touched. He coughed, croaked something like "thank you" against the lip of the cup. Cassandra nodded, barely. It was difficult to hold her gaze, when she was looking at him that way. Like she was waiting for an explanation. Judging by the array of rags and water basins and flasks on the table and the floor, she certainly deserved one. His eyes snagged on the small wooden box on her lap. He winced.

"I'm sorry. I wish you hadn't seen me like this."

"You stopped taking lyrium." Her fingers drummed on the box.

"Yes."

"May I ask _why?”_ Her voice was thin, incredulous. She made an impatient gesture at the state of the room. "Or at least, why you decided to do it like this? Without telling anyone? Without telling _me?”_ Cullen closed his eyes, frowning. He would have preferred her rage to the concern in her voice.

"I needed to...break free from the Order. Completely. I didn't want to involve anyone else."

"You failed," she growled, "I'm involved."

"I'm sorry," he repeated softly. Cassandra reached across him to refill the cup. "Are you...did you tell anyone?"

"No." If she was offended by the question, she gave no sign. Replacing the pitcher – and the lyrium kit – on the table, she sat back in the chair she'd pulled up beside him, folded her hands on her lap.

"Where did you get all of this...?"

"I requisitioned the supplies from Adan. The Herald provided a formula for headache and fever. She offered to come herself, but I told her it was unnecessary."

The Herald. Guilt spiked through his chest; he ground his teeth. "I thought you didn't tell anyone?" 

"I told her you were ill, and that it would be best to keep that between us. Nothing more." After a moment spent staring at him with an expression somewhere between consternation and empathy, she added: _”You_ should tell her, however."

 _”Maker,_ I...no! " Cullen was breathless with disbelief. "Why would I do that?"

"She is a very skilled healer. Arguably more skilled than Adan. And we depend on her, completely. She should be able to trust us. For that, we must trust _her…"_ Cassandra paused, leaning forward. "Even when we do not agree with her." His snort made her frown. He frowned back. "Don't do anything rash, Cullen."

"You mean, besides quitting lyrium without telling you?" He gave her a wry smile, despite himself.

"Yes. Besides that." She punched him affectionately, and he grunted, shaking his head. "Really, you should not have done this alone. You do not have to do everything alone. You think you are protecting people, but it is reckless. And arrogant."

"I know," he sighed, "I know. I didn't think it would be this bad. Or, I did know it would be bad, of course I've heard that it is terrible but I thought...I assumed I could endure it." 

"It is going to get worse," Cassandra pointed out, but her voice was uncharacteristically gentle. He took a deep breath.

"It is. But I must see it through. If it...if I am compromised, I expect you will do your duty." His expression hardened at her surprise. "You'll relieve me of command, if it comes to that. Promise me."

The Seeker was quiet a moment, studying his face. Then she took his hand. Squeezed it.

"I promise," she said. "But you must promise me that you will seek help when you need it, and you will come to me when you are struggling. _Trust,_ Cullen." she patted the hand she held with her other hand, resting her elbows on the bed. "You must learn to trust us."

"I do. Trust you."

"Maybe," Cassandra confirmed, releasing him, "but not enough."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
How a man like that could just vanish without a trace, Alethea could not imagine. The Commander had stormed out of the war room like a summer squall, footsteps echoing over the flagstones, and in moments – poof! Perhaps he had secretly learned how to Fade step, after seeing her do it in the woods. 

She was sure she'd find him on the field, bludgeoning a training dummy like Cassandra sometimes did to alleviate her frustration, but he was not, and his men had not seen him. _Their_ men, she reminded herself. It was not just Cullen's Inquisition; it was Cassandra's, and Leliana's, and Josephine's. But was it _hers?_ Did she have any right to assert herself as she had in the war council, barely giving the Commander a chance to speak?

 _He was not there. He didn't see the Lord Seeker's eyes, or the eyes of the men following him._ Her jaw clenched at the memory.

Still, she had to tell him something. What that would be, she couldn't be sure, but she trusted she'd come up with it once she found him. Some kind of apology was in order, a few carefully placed words to soothe his wounded pride. Alethea was good with such words. Or at least, she used to be.

But she didn't find him, and the right words did not surface from the muddy pool of her thoughts. 

Instead, she found a mercenary. 

Alethea blinked at him, struck by how much he resembled a templar from her circle. *The* Templar. Strange, to go looking for Cullen and find a memory instead. But Krem was not that man, and the invitation he bore was to the Storm Coast, not the past. She agreed to set off with him in the morning, deposited him in the tavern, and then went looking for her warrior. Oddly, she found Cassandra among the mage's huts, moving in the direction of the apothecary.

"Cassandra," she greeted. The seeker startled, color rising in her cheeks. "Looks like we're needed on the Storm Coast. I'd like to look for this Grey Warden Leliana mentioned on our way there. We leave at first light. Have you seen the Commander? I'd really like to–"

"He is indisposed," she said, firmly. Alethea's eyebrows lifted.

"That's...an interesting choice of words. Is he ill?"

"Yes." 

Alethea had not seen Cassandra look at her this way since she dragged her out of the dungeons, weeks ago. Somehow it was the same look, even though the seeker would not meet her eyes.

"May I assist?" she asked carefully, inclining her head. "I often served at our clinic, in Ostwick." Cassandra swore under her breath in Nevarran. 

"No...Yes. Maker. It would be...inadvisable if the troops knew their Commander was unwell."

"I can be discreet," Alethea said softly, taking her by the elbow and steering her behind the apothecary's hut. "What are his symptoms?" Cassandra looked askance at her, ringing her hands. It was alarming to see the ordinarily unflappable warrior so acutely flapped. Something was clearly amiss...

"Headache, fever," the seeker began, keeping her voice barely above a whisper. "Sweating, trembling...and..." She shook her head.

"And?"

"No. That's all, I think. Perhaps it is merely fatigue, or poor eating. He does work too hard."

"...Perhaps," Alethea said simply, finally meeting Cassandra's gaze. The look they shared confirmed her suspicion that something more complicated was going on, but she was not about to risk the seeker's wrath by prying. "I don't suppose you'll allow me to tend to him?" She hazarded a smile, but Cassandra's answering scowl was plenty to deter her. "Then I'll write down some instructions. I can't be sure what to do without seeing him, of course, but hopefully one of my decoctions will help to make him more comfortable." She started to move toward the front of the hut, then stopped, turned. "Out of curiosity...what were you going to tell Adan?"

"I was going to ask him for elfroot tinctures," Cassandra muttered, clearly exasperated. Alethea's lips thinned.

"Then it is a good thing I found you."

They walked together into Adan's hut, both wearing their usual masks – Alethea's pleasant and disarming one, and Cassandra's sharp-eyed frown. The former borrowed a sheet of the apothecary's paper and inscribed a detailed recipe, which included several ingredients the seeker would never have guessed. She smiled as she collected a few empty flasks for Cassandra to take, then set about making the first batch, herself. Adan was too charmed by her to question a thing. Cassandra's dark eyes followed her every move.

When they were done, Alethea walked Cassandra to the chantry. They paused at the doors, flung open despite the cold. The midday light was as brittle as the frost clinging to the stones. When Cassandra did not immediately go inside, Alethea turned to her.

"Maybe it would be best if you stayed behind, tomorrow." 

Cassandra looked dubious. "I would not leave you undefended..."

"Between Varric, Solas and Vivienne, nobody will get within a league of me. Besides, I may end up meeting with a Grey Warden and hiring a mercenary outfit. I'll find some swords. But the ones here might need you, if the Commander is too ill to train them."

"Ugh," the seeker groaned, "I am a terrible teacher."

"Then let us hope he recovers quickly," she smiled, handing over the flask of murky liquid. "And if he does, you can meet us on the road. I'll be moving at a pace of about sixty elfroot per day." Cassandra groaned again, shaking her head at Alethea's exaggerated wink. 

"You have an unhealthy obsession with weeds," she called over her shoulder, as she disappeared into the darkened hall.


End file.
